


Design Flaw 2.0

by secondhandact



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood and Gore, Incest, M/M, Masturbation, Mind Control, Situational Humiliation, Stridercest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 09:48:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10761750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondhandact/pseuds/secondhandact
Summary: Hijacking somebody's body might be rude, but when you've let them do it a few times before you can't really be surprised when they take it by force.You also can't really be surprised when they use your body to get something they've wanted for almost as long as they've been in existence.It's a shame that you don't want it, too.





	Design Flaw 2.0

**Author's Note:**

  * For [technicolorCarbon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/technicolorCarbon/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Design Flaw](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5710690) by [technicolorCarbon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/technicolorCarbon/pseuds/technicolorCarbon). 



_Let it happen,_ AR whispers - purrs - croons - commands. _Let me in._

The mirror in front of him wavers - his eyes, for a second, are lined with black, irises somehow redder than before, gleaming. Glowing.

_Let go._

The shades are sitting beside the sink. Innocuous, unless you know what they are. Plain, unless you look behind the plastic. (high-grade transparent conducting film, thank you very much.) Simple.

He can see his eyes reflected in the dark glossy lenses. There’s sweat beading on his forehead, and _oh fuck there’ssomeone **behindhim**_ —

He’s alone in the bathroom.

Reality snaps back into place with a near-audible sound, the mirror resolving once more into hard lines and sharp angles, confirming that there is, in fact, nobody standing behind him. It’s brighter than it was a few seconds ago, the bulb above the mirror humming—it’ll pop soon, he just knows it.

_Let me in, and we can do this together._

He picks up the shades, swallowing. 

_C’mon. Just one more time. One more ride._

_We help each other out. I mean, what else is family for?_

He puts the shades on.

* * *

The room he’s in is dark, lit only by a flickering, watery light—a movie projecting (on the wall? In the air? It’s hard to tell). There’s a solid surface under him, and weights on his wrists and ankles. No, not weights, _restraints_. Restraints without any give—no amount of pulling even makes them move. He tries to call out. His lips move, his throat works, but nothing comes out. There’s only silence.

Impressive, isn’t it?

He doesn’t hear the voice, but it’s still a voice; the words just happen inside his head, bypassing his ears completely. He knows what it sounds like, even when there’s no sound. It’s smooth and self-satisfied, and he can ~~(see)~~ hear the smile in it. 

I told you, Dave. You’re amazing. You made all of this possible.

There really isn’t any sound in this room. No noise at all. He can’t even hear himself breathing, or the pulse that thrums in his ears whenever the quiet gets too loud. Nothing. He blinks into the darkness, but it does no good. Everything is shadows, still and quiet. Except that voice. That voice, which continues, confident and calm.

I really should thank you.

His equilibrium shifts suddenly, which is disorienting as _hell,_ and the light crawls up the length of his body until it’s shining in his eyes. It’s almost unbearably bright. He adjusts, though, and the face he’s seeing on the screen ( screen might be the wrong word, the thing occupies his entire field of vision) is—Dirk? Dirk, looking irritated and tired. Telling him (of course) to get out of his room. He groans in silence. The last thing he wants is to be thinking about all the times Dirk’s told him to get lost. When Dirk’s lips move, he can even hear the exact cadence and timbre of his voice. _Get the hell out of my room._

Then everything gets weird.

First of all, he does not follow his usual predictable pattern of doing as he’s told and get out Dirk’s room. Instead, Dirk’s face looms closer, until he’s staring down into it—

(If Dave could describe the sensation, he’d say it’s almost exactly nothing like sitting in a roller coaster car that suddenly reverses at 300 miles an hour and then slams into a wall, but that the concept is almost the same.)

“There we go, that’s better.”

This time, it has a sort of depth, and he realizes that the voice that had been in his head is suddenly audible. The screen that he’d been looking at is further now—darkness edges it, though the intensity of the brightness doesn’t fade. In the half-light, the shadows seem to go on forever.

“You can speak now, if you like.”

Dave swallows, licking his lips. (His lips are chapped, but not uncomfortably so.) “Whzzdbzoo?”

There’s laughter. “Those aren't words.”

God, his throat feels so _dry._ Desperately, he tries again. “What did you do?” He croaks, his voice rasping on his own ears.

AR is sitting on a table just within his range of vision, hands between his thighs on the table’s edge, legs swinging. Red circuitry races up the black form he’s ~~imagined~~ chosen for himself, connecting to glowing red eyes that stare out of a face that looks way too much like Dirk. Dave suspects he’s always appeared like this because he doesn’t want Dave to forget that there’s a _reason_ they’re working so hard, because he doesn’t have a body of his own—not yet—except when his gaze fixes on him, he smiles, and the circuitry that makes up his flesh shimmers and becomes just that. Flesh. Skin. A body made whole. The face AR wears looks like Dirk, but his eyes - those are Dave’s.

It makes him shiver.

“I merely reprogrammed the neural pathways connecting your senses to the portion of the mind I have confined your consciousness to.” He hops off the table. “Once your neurotransmitters were no longer binding to their receptors and receiving data from the external world, it was easy to connect to them and give them data of my own to translate.” His smile has become a grin, smug and knowing, and as he approaches, Dave feels a cold pit of dread beginning to knot in his stomach. “Like the voice? I made it myself.”

“What?”

“I hijacked your brain.” ~~(Dirk)~~ AR presses two fingers against his temple, thumb cocking before he jerks it away. _Boom._ He laughs. “Get the picture?”

That dread is seeping into his veins. _"What?"_

“I hijacked,” AR repeats. “Your brain. It wasn’t all that hard. You weren’t using very much of it.” He leans on the table that Dave is (once again) strapped to, his lips still quirked up in a half-smile. “And now I’m gonna take your body for a joyride. You remember that car you snagged a few years back? Same basic concept, except a little more intimate. And hey, bonus—now I can play with _you,_ too.”

The pressure on his wrists and ankles eases, and Dave realizes with a start that he’s upright. His throat works, but his voice is, again, stolen. _Fuck._

“Isn’t that nice?”

Dave feels himself turning in a slow circle, rotating in what feels like the center of the endless void of a room. It’s a dizzying sensation, and he tries in vain to force his eyes to close. 

“My own personal puppet.”

Falling to the not-floor feels like it takes the entire length of a fifty-story drop and compresses it into three seconds, and Dave lurches forward—or he would, if he could move. Instead, he remains uncomfortably rigid, his stomach turning-flip-flops while he tries not to retch. AR’s in front of him, face uncomfortably close. “But hey,” he continues, “At least this way you don’t have to experience what’s going on in the real world. You’re going to, of course,” he adds, “But only when I let you. Like right now.” There’s that grin again. “I’ll let you talk.”

Maybe the pressure on his neck was always there and he just didn’t notice. He definitely notices when it’s gone, though, and he drags in a rough breath. “Fuckyou—Dirk’ll know—”

AR’s eyes widen, and he places a hand dramatically against his chest. “You doubt my ability to portray a convincingly typical Dave Strider? I am wounded.” There’s a pause. “So I suppose I’ll show you what happens when Dirk _does_ know.”

The screen sharpens, the scene unfolding coming into focus, and it’s—Dave’s stomach drops even lower than he did— _Dirk._

Dirk, looking much, _much_ different.

He swallows down a moan at the sensation of being filled while also realizing what, exactly, that means is happening beyond the confines of his skull. _Oh god, oh god **oh god**_ —he’s _fucking his brother._ Fucking _riding him._

He wants to puke.

“Whoa, we can’t have that.” AR is suddenly there, his metaphysical representation uncomfortably close in the dark forever-room he’s created in Dave’s mind. “Relax. You’re gonna enjoy this. After all, I’m enjoying this.” There’s fingers wrapping around his cock and lips pressing against his neck. “And I’m you now.”

Dave tries to protest but there’s no breath, no strength, no _choice._ It **does** feel good, dammit, the dick inside him, the hand around him, pumping him just the way he likes—fast, fast, then slow, and then fast all over again, thumb rolling over his glans and smearing pre down the length of his shaft—and he wants it to stop, prays for it to stop, gritting his teeth and struggling to pull away from the impossible pleasure that’s beginning to roll through him.

The voice in his ear is chillingly sensual, the way he’d imagine sin would sound if it could talk. “ _Relax._ Besides, if you play nice, I’ll give you whatever you want.” 

The gash in his stomach is unexpected. His skin parts like butter, opening without any provocation other than the whims of the fucking nutty-ass AI that’s now driving his body like a big wheel down suicide hill.

The accompanying pain is fire sweeping through his nerves. He screams and AR lets him, his hand still working his treacherously hard dick, blood pouring hot and fast over the flap of skin that’s now hanging away from his abdomen. _Intestines should be spilling out,_ he thinks dizzily, and then _there they are_ when they slip loose of his flesh, sliding past AR’s hands and piling on the ground at his feet. The pain isn’t just pain, it’s _agony,_ burning and bright, lighting up all his nerves in a thousand ways.

New gashes open up on his back, and his screams become choked howls. AR’s voice cuts through the sound of his misery, cocky in his ears. “Sorry. Did I say whatever _you_ want? I meant whatever **I** want.”

There’s still pleasure humming through him, fighting an insistent battle with the anguish roaring in his ears. His sobs are ragged and hoarse, and he’s not sure when he started begging, only that he doesn’t know how to stop and the words are whispered between screams brought on by pain lancing through him with each new wound AR inspires on his body. “Please-oh-please- _oh-please-fuck-fuckfuck **stop**_ —” There’s a new wound, more blood, more cries. The noises in the empty room are wet and squelching, violent and sexual all at once. It hurts. It feels great. He never wants it to end. He wants to die. “AR—fuck-please _ohplease_ —”

The orgasm that rips through him does exactly that - it _rips_ through him, ribs tearing free of his chest and spurs of bone bursting out of his skin down his back, his cry so loud that it suffocates everything else—he is everywhere and he is nowhere, everything is agony and everything is ecstasy and he can’t breathe and he is dying and it’s glorious _wonderful_ awful **terrible** —

Everything is nothing, and he’s sprawled on a nondescript bed in a nondescript hotel room, panting for breath.

The glasses he’s wearing make a _ping_ sound, somewhere in the back of his skull, and text scrolls across the screen in front of his eyes.

\-- autoresponder [AR] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 22:15pm! --

AR: Well, I don’t know about you, but I had an absolute blast.

AR: We should do that again sometime.

\-- autoresponder [AR] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 22:16pm! --

**Author's Note:**

> My love beta'd this _months_ ago, but they had intended to write a second chapter of their own and post that before I put up my version of it.
> 
> Alas, they didn't get a chance to do so, so have this from me instead.


End file.
